


Wonderwall

by FeyduBois



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeyduBois/pseuds/FeyduBois
Summary: Every university dorm has that one guy who always sits in the common room playing Wonderwall over and over. Keith’s bedroom is right next to the common room and one day, overworked and stressed out, Keith snaps. He now owes Lance a guitar, but Lance wants more than a guitar out of Keith.College AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I usually write longish chapters but these are gonna be shorter and hopefully not too disjointed. This should update often, it should be done in a couple of weeks, definitely be completed by the end of the month, if not feel free to harass me.
> 
> Done as an April Fool’s collab with Kagayama (tmblr: vangay-gh) who made this lovely painting:

[ ](http://s1262.photobucket.com/user/FeyDuBois/media/vangay-gh-full_zpsxyzt4wva.jpg.html)

 

_ Today is gonna be the day _ __  
_ That they're gonna throw it back to you _ __  
_ By now you should've somehow _ __  
_ Realized what you gotta do _ __  
_ I don't believe that anybody _ _  
_ __ Feels the way I do, about you now

 

Thursday January 9th

 

It was a Thursday night, the night some people referred to as the ‘student Friday’ because there were not many Friday classes and most of the students that worked part-time were working Saturday and Sunday so Thursday was their only opportunity to let loose and party it up. Naturally the fourth floor common room of the dormitories of Galaxy Garrison University was a little more bustling than usual on Thursdays. Keith could hand that, it was only 8pm after all, even though his bedroom was right next to the common room and he could hear everything. His roommate, Shiro, was out with his girlfriend. Shiro was working on a Masters of Archeology and was their floor’s senior RA. He was a little older than many of the other students, having spent a few years in the military before enrolling, and he had more or less taken Keith under his wing that fall when they had met.

 

Keith brewed up a quick cup of coffee with his tiny single-cup machine and settled down to write a geography paper. It was only a couple of weeks into the semester following winter break and Keith had already fallen behind through no fault of his own when someone had brought the flu into the dorms after visiting their family during the holidays. He had been a mess for a week, but he was feeling better finally. Unfortunately he had missed a few geography lectures and hadn’t been able to start his paper up until now since he’d been scrambling around all week to get caught up in the readings and his other classes.

 

A half hour later Keith had reread the assignment eighteen times and still isn’t exactly sure what the prof wanted, but e-mailing her to ask right now would reveal that he was starting his paper at the last minute and he probably wouldn’t get a response until Monday which was when the paper was due. He gnawed on the end of his pencil and tried to figure out what his next move was. Maybe reread the sections in the text related to the topic, urban geography and human distribution statistics? Eventually he came across a couple of key phrases that seemed to answer the questions posed in the assignment. Quickly he sketched out a brief outline, and then clicked open a new text document. Keith made another cup of coffee and sat back down, ready to get to work on the paper when suddenly, from the common room, a familiar guitar riff could be heard.

 

“ _ Today is gonna’ be the day,”  _ sang a brazen alto, “ _ That they’re gonna’ throw it back to you. _ ”

 

“No!” Keith literally hissed out-loud. Not tonight, not fucking tonight. Every campus dormitory seemed to have that one douchebag who would sit in the common room, or on the green if the weather was nice, or somewhere public and play, on an acoustic guitar,  _ that fucking song. _

_  
_ “ _ By now you should've somehow realized what you gotta’ do.” _

 

Keith tried to remember this guy’s name, Larry? Something like that. He was the absolute worst. Truthfully his singing wasn’t that bad, nor his playing, but Keith hated it. He sang with an annoyingly willful abandon, a disregard for others, and Keith could imagine that fucking smirk he always had while he did it, winking at the pretty women (and sometimes men) who paused to watch him. He would play “Wonderwall” over and over, and then sometimes play other songs, but his warm-up song, since he had figured out how to play it in November, was always the same. 

 

_ “I don't believe that anybo~dy feels the way I do, about you no~w.” _

 

Larry, or whatever his name was, played it once, then twice, three times, but on the fourth time, now that he was warmed up, he was throwing himself into it, blissfully unaware that, mere feet away from him on other side of the wall, Keith Kogane was losing his mind.

 

[](http://s1262.photobucket.com/user/FeyDuBois/media/vangay-gh_zpsujub0sij.jpeg.html)

 

Something inside of Keith suddenly broke.

 

He crushed his pencil into several pieces and dropped them on the floor in a splintered mess and then emerged from his room without bothering to put on his jacket or boots. Instead he marched straight over to where “Wonderwall” was still being played.

 

“ _ And after all, _ ” the man sang,  _ “You’re my wonderwa--” _

 

Keith snatched the guitar out of his hands.

 

“Hey! That’s my guitar, what are you do-”

 

**_‘SMASH!’_ **

 

There was an awful splintering and banging sound as Keith brought the guitar down against the coffee table once, and again, and a total of four times, as many times as “Wonderwall” had been played. He then tossed the destroyed neck with the strings still clinging to it at the feet of the singer.

 

A whispered hush and several sounds of amazement rose up from everyone on the common room and adjoining kitchen.

 

The singer, a brunette with lightly freckled warm brown skin fixed him with an angry glare, “You know, you could have just asked me to stop.”

 

Keith felt the blinding rage ebbing away slowly and his senses gradually returning. He looked from the broken guitar, to the outraged brunette, and then fled the common room with as much dignity as he could muster. He slammed his bedroom door behind himself and tossed himself onto his mattress, trying to block out the cacophony of voices that followed him.

 

Shit. He broke the guy’s guitar. Of course he didn’t mean to, but at the time it had seemed like the best way to get the noise to  _ stop _ . It had worked, but now he looked like a giant asshole and he’d have to do something, buy him a new guitar probably, and everyone would know him as the guy that smashed Larry’s guitar.

 

A knock came at his bedroom door, followed by the door opening. Keith sat up, ready to tear the person who came into his private space a new one, but it was just his roommate, Shiro, holding up his hands in surrender. “It’s just me, Keith.”

 

“Have a seat,” Keith sighed.

 

Shiro sat at the computer desk while Keith drew himself up on his bed, bringing his knees to his chest and staring forcefully at his socks.

 

“I heard you had a disagreement with Lance,” Shiro began.

 

“Lance?”

 

“The boy with the guitar.”

 

“Oh. Yes… Lance.” Apparently his name wasn’t Larry Keith realized, slightly embarrassed, “He was playing “Wonderwall” for the millionth time and I couldn’t handle it.”

 

“So instead of asking him to stop you smashed his guitar?” Shiro asked, a touch of a smile, affectionate but forbearing, visible in his left dimple.

 

“...yes.” Keith said, ashamed.

 

Shiro sighed and ran his hand, the plastic and steel prosthetic that had been his parting gift from the army, through the tuft of white hair that was his bangs with a loud exhaling sigh, “Okay.”

 

“I’m sorry?” Keith asked.

 

“You’ll have to apologize to Lance, and buy him a new guitar, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Keith agreed in a quiet voice barely above a whisper.

 

“Allura’s got him waiting right outside,” Shiro said, “Are you ready?”

 

“Wait, what?” Keith asked.  _ How did they get this done so fast? Why was this Lance kid ready to talk already instead of seething in his own room? _

 

Shiro, as if reading Keith’s mind, simply shrugged, “He’s an interesting kid, you should talk this out.”

 

With that Shiro stood up and left the bedroom. Seconds later another knock came to the door and a strange but not unknown voice was at the door, “Knock knock? It’s Lance here. You’re Keith?”

 

_ Oh shit.  _ Keiths heart was pounding in his chest, “Come in.”

 

Lance let himself in and he sat himself on the computer chair backwards, his legs around the backrest, without invitation. He eyed up Keith who sat staring at the floor still.

 

They remained in awkward silence for a few moments until Lance began, “I didn’t think my singing was that bad.”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Keith, “It’s not. It was just the song.”

 

Lance gasped, offended, “You don’t like “Wonderwall”?”

 

“I… you never play anything else. Every single night it’s the same damn song and my bedroom is right here so I heard it, over and over, and I’ve had a rough week so I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re sorry you smashed my guitar?”

 

“Yes, I’m sorry I smashed your guitar.”

 

“The guitar my beloved uncle gave me before he left to join the navy?” Lance asked.

 

“Yes, your uncle’s guitar.”

 

“And he might never return since he was sent out not long ago to fight overseas.”

 

“Yes,” Keith gritted his teeth, “That guitar.”

 

“Well,” Lance said dismissively, “You’ll have to make it up to me.”

 

“I’ll buy you a new guitar, of course,” Keith said.

 

“Of course,” Lance parroted, “But it’s got to be the perfect guitar. Nothing can replace my uncle’s guitar, naturally, but I can look around and  _ try  _ to find a guitar that just might,  _ maybe,  _ be able to replace it.”

 

“Okay,” Keith said.

 

“Until then maybe I can other ways you can make this up to me?”

 

“Other ways?” Keith blinked, “Like what?”

 

“Like, for starters how about lunch?”

 

“Lunch?”

 

“Lunches,” Lance confirmed, “For a week. I’ll come by Monday morning and you’ll have it ready for me, say 8:30am? Sandwiches? I don’t like roast beef but anything else is fine. And two juice boxes, fruit punch.”

  
“Uh wait,” Keith felt like he should be writing this down, but Lance was already headed towards the door, waving Keith away, “See ya Monday.”


End file.
